Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I collect the leafing of paint loosed from siding, the inner lining of a box that held a chime. I watch a crow flaunt its blue-black coat and a silver moth fanning itself by the door post Sweetness bursts by degrees out of the skin as the sweet potato roasts in the fire.
in a thin soil of its own making
over slabs of ancient sea floor
the vacant shell of a pine
still stands below the ridge crest
gapped open like an iron maiden
with horns of wood
where branch collars
expanded ring by ring
now left behind when
the rest of it rotted out
the limbs they anchored gone
that whole green cathedral
in an afterlife where birds
can perch within
and snowflakes
fine as the hairs on a caterpillar
the squall hits just
as I clear the trees
painting us all white
in a matter of minutes
every twig and pine needle
furred with absence
and hours later when i hike
back up from the other side
following an abandoned
haul road through the rocks
it happens again
the valley lost in whiteout
and i descend through a blur
glasses safe in my pocket
telling myself it’s a spring snow
here and gone
that a glimpse is all we get
of winter any more
trees turned into
a forest of ghosts
as i reach the car
the view finally opens up
a snowy field green
with winter wheat
and a factory holding
5000 hogs they say
though nothing emanates
but a faint hum
the length of its roof pristine
in laboratory white
Canoe Mountain
PA State Game Lands 166
March 10, 2024
Early up in the morning to read “The Seaman’s Grammar and Dictionary” I lately have got, which do please me exceeding well.
At the office all the morning, dined at home, and Mrs. Turner, The, Joyce, and Mr. Armiger, and my father and mother with me, where they stand till I was weary of their company and so away.
Then up to my chamber, and there set papers and things in order, and so to bed.
ear to the sea
a grammar of home and joy
father and mother
till weary
and away
to my paper-thin bed
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 13 March 1660/61.
Here we are again. A cold plain of silence, a clinking of dishes for accompaniment. They come at later intervals now, but still they come— as if the bare trees filling with the dark iridescence of grackles aren't enough, as if the fields strewn with headstones and weeds aren't loud enough. It feels like we've just arrived yet barely know how soon we'll get to where we're all headed. It could be any day now. It could be an instant. Tomorrow, next week, next year, or an extra decade later. And what is a birthday? In home recordings there's that moment between the light being dimmed in another room and the moment when the cake is borne aloft, a ship strung with sparklers. Here it comes. First the hush, then eruption into sound. Remember?
At the office about business all the morning, so to the Exchange, and there met with Nick Osborne lately married, and with him to the Fleece, where we drank a glass of wine. So home, where I found Mrs. Hunt in great trouble about her husband’s losing of his place in the Excise. From thence to Guildhall, and there set my hand to the book before Colonel King for my sea pay, and blessed be God! they have cast me at midshipman’s pay, which do make my heart very glad. So, home, and there had Sir W. Batten and my Lady and all their company and Capt. Browne and his wife to a collation at my house till it was late, and then to bed.
ice in a glass
sing to my hand
sea and ship make
my heart their own
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 12 March 1660/61.
A personal selection of posts from the Poetry Blogging Network and beyond. Although I tend to quote my favorite bits, please do click through and read the whole posts. You can also browse the blog digest archive, subscribe to its RSS feed in your favorite feed reader, or, if you’d like it in your inbox, subscribe on Substack.
This week: panic needles, jellyfish tentacles, the poem as a begging bowl, mixed mental arts, and more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 10”
Undress Testing the sharpness of an edge, you brace yourself against undoing. Lull No words tell you more than any unburdening. Lie there, just breathing. Blood Orange The inside is always more interesting—but you have to taste it there.
At the office all the morning, dined at home and my father and Dr. Thos. Pepys with him upon a poor dinner, my wife being abroad. After dinner I went to the theatre, and there saw “Love’s Mistress” done by them, which I do not like in some things as well as their acting in Salsbury Court.
At night home and found my wife come home, and among other things she hath got her teeth new done by La Roche, and are indeed now pretty handsome, and I was much pleased with it. So to bed.
on a poor road
we eat well
bury our night in teeth
and pretty hands
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 March 1660/61.
You can buy a kit that comes with a vial and a cotton swab—gloss it over the inside of your cheek, send it off to a company which promises to unlock medical and genetic mysteries in your family tree and find your ancestors' migration patterns. Perhaps fill in, once and for all, the many gaps in family stories. At best, however, these are estimates, though people have found their way to unexpected results—who got knocked up in the war, who they were not a chlid of, after all. Who gave you that leaky heart, that questioning nature, that inability to believe.
(Lord’s day). Heard Mr. Mills in the morning, a good sermon. Dined at home on a poor Lenten dinner of coleworts and bacon. In the afternoon again to church, and there heard one Castle, whom I knew of my year at Cambridge. He made a dull sermon.
After sermon came my uncle and aunt Wight to see us, and we sat together a great while. Then to reading and at night to bed.
lord in a poor castle
my rat and I
together
at night
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 March 1660/61.